


Hurricane

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angst, Black Badge is Always The Bad Guy, F/M, Future Fic, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: From the chair next to him, Sasha shoots up and bolts to her, gripping her arm familiarly, and says something that he can’t hear.  He goes cold when she drags her back to their table.“—I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming to town, you bitch, I’d’ve had better company for you,” she’s laughing.  “You know Andre, and this is Agent—”“Dolls, yeah,” Wynonna says softly, voice rough and lips twisting wryly.  At their odd looks, she explains, eyes steady on his, “We move in similar circles.  Same line of work.”





	Hurricane

When she first walks in, Dolls thinks he’s hallucinating.  He’d let himself be coaxed out to the bar by the sheriff and his sister, Sasha, who reminds him _just enough_ of her to make his chest ache, not in the way she looks but in the way she speaks, her irreverent sense of humor, her casual disregard for his badge—“C’mon, Agent Dolls,” she’d said with sharp eyes and a sweet, dimpling smile, “We got our man and no one died.  We deserve this.  If it makes you feel better, we’ll let you DD.”—but as soon as they’d gotten there, she’d pressed a whiskey on ice into his hands, not knowing the taste was like ash on his tongue.  He’d been nursing that one drink for an hour by then.  When she first walks in, she’s followed by a gust of hot wind and a flash of lightning, and he’s _sure_ he’s dreaming.  Or maybe he’s wrong, maybe it’s not her.  Her hair is cropped short, just under her chin, still in voluminous waves, but he recognizes her necklace, and when she looks around, he knows the moment she sees him because her eyes go wide and he can see, even from there, the way her jaw ticks.

From the chair next to him, Sasha shoots up and bolts to her, gripping her arm familiarly, and says something that he can’t hear.  He goes cold when she drags her back to their table.

“—I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming to town, you bitch, I’d’ve had better company for you,” she’s laughing.  “You know Andre, and this is Agent—”

“Dolls, yeah,” Wynonna says softly, voice rough and lips twisting wryly.  At their odd looks, she explains, eyes steady on his, “We move in similar circles.  Same line of work.”

_“Oh,”_ Sasha gasps, looking back and forth between them.

Because he feels like he has to say something, Dolls remarks dumbly, “You cut your hair.”

He hears Andre mutter, “Smooth,” into his beer.

“Been known to do that from time to time,” she responds coolly.  Then, with a soft, unwilling smile, she says, “Plus, there was an incident with bubble gum, you know how it goes.”

There’s a pause and it’s more than a little awkward.

Sasha breaks the silence.  She’s good for that.  “Wynonna, we need drinks.  We should go get drinks.”

He tries really hard not to turn to watch her walk to the bar.  He fails—but he tries.  “So, what’s the story there?” Andre asks suddenly, face affectedly disinterested.

“We used to work together,” he says simply.

“Oh, and that’s all, is it?” he snorts.  “She comes down every once in a while.  Really hit it off with Sasha, I think they’re the same kind of, yanno.”  Dolls feels him watching him for a reaction.  “Had no idea she was in your business, though.” 

He’s always liked that Andre is a man of few words, but in this moment, he feels a desperate plea rising in his throat to tell him _everything_.  It’s stupid and he squashes it and he thinks, very seriously, about getting the hell outta dodge before the girls return with their drinks when an elbow knocks into his and a glass drops onto the tabletop and Sasha is looking into his face with a cocked brow, face steadily expectant.  Across from him, Wynonna says something low to Andre, laughs, but he can see the familiar tension she’s holding.

“I’m thinking you two need to talk,” Sasha says quietly, turning her glass in a slow circle.  “You want us to get lost?”

“What?  No, you’re celebrating, you should celebrate,” he replies quickly.

“But you’re not celebrating anymore,” she finishes for him.  She takes a healthy gulp of her drink and says, bright and teasing, “Andy, pool table’s free—I’m gonna kick your _ass_ tonight.”

“Never would accuse Sasha of being subtle, would you?” Wynonna laughs hollowly, watching them leave.  He doesn’t say _no you would not_ , instead opting to take a drink.  “They let me crash on their couches sometimes, when I come down.  I didn’t realize—I knew there was something weird about this place… something weird everywhere I go, really, but I didn’t realize it was Black Badge business.”

He shrugs, uneasy—it’s not like he wasn’t very aware of how cruelly close to Purgatory they’d sent him.  “It became Black Badge business when they started killing hikers,” he responds.

“When will people learn that hiking only ends in disaster?” she sighs with a quick flash of a smile, sliding off of her stool and into the one next to him.

He can’t stop looking at her—can’t believe it’s really her, that she’s here.  He should leave.  He should go far, far away before she gets…  But he can’t stop drinking in the sight of her, alive and right in front of him.  Two years ago, he’d accepted he’d never see her again, and having her close enough to touch is dream-like and surreal.  He watches her lips purse as she swirls her glass, amber liquid sloshing around and around before she downs it in one drink.

The silence that stretches between them is uncomfortable, tense.  When her eyes catch his, they’re cool and distant.

Finally, he asks, “How’s—”

“Do you really wanna ask that right now?” she interrupts, brow furrowing and glass hitting the table too hard.  “She cried for _months_ after you left.  She didn’t understand why her papa was just gone.”  She looks away from him, eyes hard on the scarred wood.  “I told her you were out saving the world.”

His throat feels tight as he says, “Wynonna…”

“I didn’t want—she thinks you’re a superhero,” she says slowly.  “I got called in by the principal because she taught the other girls in her class how to beat up boys who were, like, harassing them.  So, thanks for that.”  At least now when she smiles, it’s a little warmer.

In that moment, he wants to tell her everything—wants to tell her how dangerous it would have been, how he couldn’t do that, how the thought of leaving them was easier than the thought of _losing_ them—but he bites his tongue for a half a moment before asking, “Do you want a refill?”

She tips her glass and looks at him slyly and replies, “Is that even a real question?”

Without thinking, he touches her hip as he passes and regrets it the moment he feels her tense.  Face hot, he only just manages not to bolt to the bar.  He feels Sasha at his side before she says anything, and she’s got that knowing glint in her eyes when he looks over.

“Old flame?” she asks.

“Something like that,” he huffs, trying and failing to get the bartender’s attention.

“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” she presses.  Then, she laughs, friendly hand on his arm.  “You know, I always did wonder why she never went for any of the guys—or girls, really—I threw at her.”

Dolls doesn’t say anything.  He doesn’t really know what to say.  Would he prefer to know that she had gone for it?  That she’d moved on?  He’s not even sure.  Something about the way she looks at him makes him feel like he revealed a secret.  Somehow, she’s able to wave down the bartender with a quick gesture that he’s only a little amazed by, and she nudges him, over-familiar and laughing.  He buys their drinks and hers, mostly so she’ll stop looking at him like that.

When he gets back to the table, Wynonna’s eyes are back at the pool table.  “She your new deputy?” she asks, voice suddenly icier than he’s ever heard it.

“I haven’t deputized anyone,” he says, hating the earnest, begging _need_ in his voice. 

Her lips twist.  “Well, your last one wasn’t that great, probably ruined you for it,” she says.

“Actually,” he replies around a sip of bottom-shelf liquor.  “My last one was pretty awesome.  I didn’t think I’d be able to top her.”

“God,” she laughs.  “I mean, I’m still pissed at you, but that was a pretty good one.”

“Thanks.”  He feels the need to say, “She’s helpful, and good with a knife, and I work with her brother.  We’re friendly.”

“You’re not friendly,” she says quietly, but he catches the teasing note buried in there.  “I’m serious.  Your trademark is your dickitude.”

“Maybe I’m going for a rebrand,” he replies.

There’s something small and sad in her smile that makes him want to reach for her.  Instead, his fist clenches and he raps his knuckles on the wood.  Outside, there’s a flash of lightning and a close crack of thunder, but he doesn’t hear rain.  “Sounds like it’s gonna be a bad one,” she says neutrally.

“Hate to get caught out in it,” he replies.

Her eyes are thoughtful for a moment before she asks, “You wanna take me to whatever shitty hotel they got you living in these days?”  Her shoulder lifts, nonchalant.  “Old time’s sake.”

Every part of him is screaming to say no, to down the last of his drink and tell Sasha to take let her sleep on her couch and get the hell out of there, but she licks her lips and her eyes have gone dark, so instead he nods and says, “Yeah, let’s get outta here.”

He thinks really seriously about telling Andre and Sasha they’ll have to find another ride, but they’re already looking at them.  Sasha winks and catches Wynonna’s eye, making an obscene gesture with her hands that makes him wonder what trickster god thought it was a good idea to introduce the two of them.  When his hand settles low on her back this time, Wynonna bumps into his side, glancing over almost coyly.  Outside, the wind whips her hair around her face—it’s hot and heavy and tense and there’s another lightning strike, another rumble of thunder, just as she arches up into his space, lips crashing into his hungrily and sloppily.  Her tongue slips into his mouth, he feels the buzz of her needy moan.

She starts to pull away—he follows, starving for her, missing her for so long, needing the taste of her just a little longer.  Her teeth graze his lips and his gasp makes her smile.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, “Wanna miss the storm.”

“Right,” she huffs, looking into his eyes as her fingers stroke over either side of his neck.  “Right.”

For perhaps the first time in his _very_ long tenure with Black Badge, Dolls is glad they really only deal in small towns—the supernatural can be masked and written off in large cities, where death and weirdness and disappearances are expected or unnoticed—because the motel he’s been in for the last few months is only a few minutes away.  He barely even remembers the drive, may break a few traffic laws to get there, but all that matters is getting her mouth back on his, first pressed up against the door before he’s able to pull out his key, then inside, when she slams him against it with a dangerous glint in her eyes.  Her nails dig into his shoulders through his T-shirt as she presses closer, kissing him so hard it almost hurts.  His fingers card through her hair, drag over her scalp, and he feels her soft mewl.

She pulls away in favor of sucking a bruise into his neck, just the spot that makes his knees weak, as one hand trips down his chest, then back up under his shirt.  Her teeth dig into his skin at the same moment she pinches and tugs his nipple, and he hisses, letting his head fall back and thud against the door.  His hands slide down her back to her hips, pulling her against him as he rocks against her, chasing pleasure as she pops off his neck and sighs hotly into his skin. 

He lets her break away to tug his shirt off, feels hot everywhere she looks at him as her eyes trail hungrily down his chest and belly.  “God, you’re still so hot,” she says, voice cracking.

Dipping forward, he kisses her again, gentle and quick, before pulling her own shirt up over her head and watching her necklace dance against her stomach.  She pops the button on his jeans and strokes him gently through them before pushing down the zipper.

“Fuck, Wynonna,” he gasps when her fingers wrap around his cock through his boxers.

“That’s the idea,” she replies lowly, just short of his mouth as she strokes him, quick and rough.  He reaches behind her to unhook her bra and watches her let it fall to the floor just before sinking to her knees. 

Pushing his boxers down just enough to free his erection, her eyes fall shut as her lips wrap around the head.  He lets out a groan, unable to tear his gaze away from her as she bobs her head, following her lips with a firm hand wrapped around the shaft.  With every strong pull, his hips hitch, fingers tangled in her hair, thighs shaking with the effort of not thrusting forward.  She pulls back and looks up, eyes heavy with want as she tongues the slit, dragging a desperate whine out of him.

Her lips curl smugly and he drags her up to her feet to smear their lips together.  She lets him push her backwards until she hits the bed and, with a startled laugh, falls backwards, bare chest heaving and hair mussed, lips swollen and parted.  Now, he drops to his knees, fingers working at the zippers of her boots, yanks them off, and tosses them to the side.  When he hooks his fingers into the waist of her jeans, she lifts her hips to help him shimmy them off.  He rubs the lines the hems have left on her thighs with his fingers before following with his lips and tongue, relishing in her soft sigh as she hooks her knee over his shoulder to pull him forward.  Her breath hitches when he bites the ridge of her hip.

Damn near right outside the window, there’s a bright flash and boom that shakes through the walls, the ground, makes them both jump as he hears the downpour start, so hard it’s almost deafening.  With a breathless little chuckle, she asks, “So, are you gonna…”

Rolling his eyes, he mutters, “Still so impatient.”

She doesn’t have time to respond because he licks her clit before gently sucking it into his mouth, hot with her loud moan.  When he looks up, her back is bent and her hands are on her breasts.  His tongue whirls, alternating between quick, hard laps and long, slow strokes, relishing in the needy noises he pulls out of her with every touch.

Soon, though, she urges him up, whispering, “Come here, come here,” and he obligingly kisses his way up her belly, her chest, pausing only to tease either nipple with his teeth and lips.  She arches up to kiss him, frenzied and slick and messy.  Her nails scratch at the back of his neck.

“Wait, wait, I don’t have a—”

“That’s—” she bites her lip in a way he recognizes, it’s the face she makes when she’s about to say something mean and is trying _really hard_ not to.  “I do, wallet.  Pants pocket.”

With a grunt, he pushes off of her and snatches up her jeans.  He doesn’t expect to find her badge still inside, and it makes something bitter twist in his stomach to find it there—he almost forgets the real reason he was digging in it.  His pause must speak volumes because, when he finds what he’s looking for, she’s staring at him, wounded.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says quietly, pleadingly.  “Come _here_.”

“Okay,” he says, kicking off his shoes and shoving off his jeans and boxers before ripping open the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolling it on.  As he steps closer to the bed, she pushes backward until she reaches the middle of the mattress. 

Just as he’s climbing between her knees, there’s another crack of thunder, deafening, and the lights and A/C go out.  For a long moment, both of them sit, stock-still and silent, in the dark, quiet only disrupted by the howling wind and heavy rain.

“Jesus,” she laughs, hands finding him in the dark.  She pulls him down against her, one arm winding around his neck as her fingers splay on his side, over his ribs.  “I really want you to fuck me,” she whispers, breath ghosting his lips.

“Shit,” he hisses on the tail-end of a laugh, biting his way into her mouth as he teases the head of his cock against her before pressing forward. 

He feels her legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer, feels her moan into the kiss.  He drags his teeth over her lip as his hips roll, slow and gentle, but her nails dig into his skin as she whispers _harder_ and _more_ and _please_ and it’s the _please_ that settles in his gut, drives him to snap his hips forward.  With every thrust, she cries out, scratching into his back as she lifts up to meet him.  He drops onto his elbows, caging her in and groaning against her lips, her jaw, her neck.  Messy and hungry, he sucks bruises into the skin at her throat and her frantic whimpers buzz against his lips.

She whines when he pushes up to put enough space between them to flick his thumb over her clit, hands falling away for a moment before they find their way to either side of his neck to drag him down for a hot, open kiss.  He swallows her moans, feels how close she is in the flex of her fingers and the pitch of her voice and the way she squeezes around him.  There’s heat pooling in his gut, his own orgasm so, so close, driving into her rough and hard until he feels her whole body tense, feels the moment her climax hits her with a wrecked cry.  His kiss grows harder as his hips move jerkily, so close he’s aching for it as he feels her quake.

He cums with a moan so loud it almost makes his throat raw, vision going white either from the force of it or lightning, he can’t even tell, burying his face into her hair as she whimpers, stroking his back as he slows.  Eventually, he settles against her, breathing in the smell of her and listening to the storm outside.  The reality of what happens kinda settles in as he regains higher function of his brain.

Feeling suddenly cold, he rolls away from her and hears her quiet huff.  The bed shifts as she sits up, and he can barely see her outline.  She’s quiet for a long moment.  He waits her to ask the question he _knows_ she wants to.

“So, are we gonna talk about you leaving?” she eventually does ask, so quiet it almost gets lost in all the noise outside.

“I had to,” he says.

“Really?  That’s what you’ve got?” she laughs humorlessly.  “C’mon, at least bullshit me a little.”

“You know how they operate, Wynonna, you saw it firsthand,” he responds, voice dull and distant.  He feels her tense, and it was a bad tactic.  Even at their best, they rarely talked about Eliza, not what happened to her.  “When they ask you to come with, it’s not really an offer.”

“And you couldn’t have _called?_ ” she demands, sounding angry and tired.  “Like burners aren’t a thing?  ‘Hi, honey, a corrupt government agency recruited me, so I won’t be home for dinner, kiss the kid goodnight for me.’”

“I thought it would be better, safer, if I didn’t—”

“You don’t get to make that decision for us!” she interrupts, whirling around and he can almost _feel_ the force of her stare without seeing it.  “You don’t just get to leave and not say goodbye and say that it was _better_ than giving me a call or sending a goddamn carrier pigeon.  It’s not like I didn’t _know_ it was them—we looked for you—we—”

With a frustrated groan, she pushes out of bed and he hears her pace the room.

“Do you know what they would’ve done to Sprout?” he asks, pushing up and searching for her in the dark.  “You _know_ what they did to me—I was just human, if they knew…” he shakes his head, emotion coloring his voice.  “They promised to leave you alone if I went, I couldn’t risk—”  He stops when the lights flicker back on, hears the A/C crank as it powers up.  Blinking in the suddenly too-bright light, he looks at her face.  Her eyes are wet, close to overflowing.  “I couldn’t risk you two.”

Her face falls and she turns away, hands coming up to swipe at her cheeks.  He watches her pace the room a little before she starts picking up her clothes.  She tugs on her underwear, her tank top, her jeans.

“Wynonna, the storm,” he reminds her.

“Relax,” she says, voice quivering even as her lips curl in what he knows is the façade of confidence.  “I saw a vending machine.  I want candy.”

He settles back into the pillows as she smooths her hands through her hair and leaves the room barefoot, pulling the swing bar to keep the door from closing completely as she goes.  Until she returns, he almost can’t breathe, anxiety and honest-to-god _regret_ twisting in his gut.  It’s not that he doesn’t believe that he did the right thing, but what’s he gonna do after tonight?  Go back to longing for her and pretending he’s one of the good guys?  Shaking his head, he rolls out of the bed and digs in the dresser for a pair of sweats.  When she comes back, he’s still standing in the middle of the room, lost in thought.  Her shirt and jeans are dotted with rain, but some of the wind has died down.

She looks at him curiously for a moment, bites viciously into a Twizzler, and shoves her jeans back off before saying, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m staying the night.”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he responds, easier than he feels.  She looks at him a little like she sees right through him as she climbs under the blanket.  “C’mon,” he complains, “No candy in the bed.”

“You’re not my boss anymore,” she grins.  When she reaches for him, he climbs in after her and lets her tug him closer.  She scritches at his beard, but her face has grown solemn and thoughtful.  “So, this was kind of a one-off thing, huh?”

Frowning, he strokes her cheek with his thumb, and he missed _this_ more than anything, missed letting himself get wrapped up in her to the exclusion of every other thing.  “It wouldn’t be—”

“Safe?” she finishes bitterly.  “Safety is overrated anyway.”

He pulls her closer, buries his face into her hair as he takes long, shuddering breaths, suddenly completely overcome.  Childishly, he thinks that it isn’t _fair_ that he got to hold her as long as he did, got to sleep in her bed, got to wake up to her smiles and scowls and groans about needing coffee, got to take Sprout to appointments and daycare and see her first day of pre-K, only to have everything snatched away.  He hears her own breath catch as she wraps her arms around him.  Too soon, she pushes away to catch the lamp next to the bed, plunging them back into darkness.  She curls into his side, tracing little patterns on his stomach, and he tries to be content with this.

“You’re thinking too much,” she murmurs, fingers spreading out on his belly.  “Go to sleep, Xavier.”

Huffing, he jostles her a little and closes his eyes and forces himself to focus on her steady breathing.  At some point, he falls asleep and dreams of frigid winters and bad beer and laughing over bad cooking.  His alarm startles him awake too soon.  His bed is empty and cold and, were it not for the scratches on his back and the sore spot on his neck, he’d almost think he dreamt the night before up, too.  There’s a note on the other pillow, though, and he recognizes her scrawl— _See you soon, love_.

Over the next week, he can barely think of anything else.  It’s a bad idea, but telling her so would only make it worse.  Besides, she makes no effort to contact him, so maybe it wasn’t so much a promise as a wish.  When he’d shown up at the station the morning after that night, Sasha had only looked at him expectantly as her brother handed him a file with a short comment about a birdwatcher that morning.  Everything settles back into the same old routine with unnerving speed, but he can’t stop thinking of her, even as his bruises and scratches fade and heal.  He’s in his office, rereading an autopsy report for, maybe, the fourth time, when the door creaks open.

The sight of her literally takes his breath away, and he wants to frown at that thought, but he’s too busy trying to think past the steady thrum of _you’re here, you’re here, you’re here_.  Her chin dips as she smiles, holding a big yellow envelope in front of her chest.

“Brought you a present,” she says gently, stepping gingerly inside and nudging the door closed.

He’s frozen in place as she steps closer, skirts around his desk, and hops onto the edge as she offers the envelope.  It’s heavier, fuller than he expects, and he _feels_ a cellphone.  What he finds when he opens it makes his eyes itch, though.  It’s full of photos, sometimes just of Sprout, sometimes of the whole family, grinning and distracted—school photos, gap-toothed grins, destroyed birthday cakes.  He sees Doc, and Waverly, and Nicole, and even Nedley.  There’s Wynonna and Sprout on Halloween in matching Ghostbusters coveralls, curled up together on the couch, painting what he recognizes as Sprout’s bedroom with flowers and—are those bats?  He laughs, mangled and choked with tears, and shoots to his feet to drag her to his chest.

“One day,” she whispers as he presses his face into her neck, “You’re gonna get outta the BBD for real—for good, okay?” 

It’s not clear if she really believes that or if she’s just pretending for his sake.  Still, he nods, indulging wishful thinking.

“And there’s, like, six calling cards in that thing, so you better goddamn use them,” she continues.  He pulls back and knocks their foreheads together, squeezing his eyes shut.  “Okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes, unable to pull away.  “Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous said:  
> Luke Combs' Hurricane + Wyndolls AU where Dolls is reassigned/leaves and one day he sees Wynonna in a bar and the sparks come back and everything is messy and glorious
> 
> This ask has been sitting in my inbox for a _while_ jfc. This anon didn't have to come for me like this.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading, and please come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where this show is all I care about.


End file.
